Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | ||
3. PART III.
And spread thy purple wings!—
Now all thy figures are allowed,
And various shapes of things.
Ben Jonson.
ALICE RAY.
A ROMANCE IN RHYME.
CANTO I.
ALICE AT HOME.
Among the blossomed trees;
The flowers are sighing forth their sweets
To wooing honey-bees;—
The glad brook o'er a pebbly floor
Goes dancing on its way,—
But not a thing is so like spring
As happy Alice Ray.
And, like the blest above,
The gentle maid had ever breathed
An atmosphere of love;
Her father's smile like sunshine came,
Like dew her mother's kiss,
Their love and goodness made her home,
Like heaven, the place of bliss.
The joyous child had sprung
Like one bright flower, in wild-wood bower,
And gladness round her flung;
And all who met her blessed her,
And turned again to pray,
That grief and care might ever spare
The happy Alice Ray.
Was not from Venus caught;
From majesty of thought;—
Her healthful cheek was tinged with brown,
Her hair without a curl;
But then her eyes were love-lit stars,
Her teeth as pure as pearl.
Her sweet, clear voice was heard,
It welled from out her happy heart
Like carol of a bird;
And all who heard were moved to smiles,
As at some mirthful lay,
And, to the stranger's look, replied—
“'T is that dear Alice Ray.”
That bring the April green;
As type of nature's royalty,
They called her “Woodburn's Queen!”
Like spring-time of the year,
Seemed ever on her steps to wait,—
No wonder she was dear.
And little taught by rules,
Her mind had often grasped a truth
Beyond the art of schools;—
No Sophist could have moved her faith,—
She knew her Bible true,
And thrice, ere sixteen springs she bloomed,
Had read the good Book through.
From work as well as play,
And in their dear companionship
She passed the live-long day—
Sweet Poesy and wild Romance,
Tales of the Wise and Good,
And “Sweetened Solitude.”
What friendships had she made!
She pitied lonely Crusoe's lot,
And loved Scheherazade,—
But to the Bard of Avon turned
Her fancy and her heart,
Nor knew which most in him she loved—
The nature or the art.
She thought of grief and pain
As giants in the olden time
That ne'er would come again;
The seasons all had charms for her;
She welcomed each with joy,—
The charm that in her spirit lived
No changes could destroy.
The waters always sweet,—
Her pony in the pasture,
The kitten at her feet,
The ruffling bird of Juno, and
The wren in the old wall—
Each knew her loving carefulness,
And came at her soft call.
For in the heart must live
The feeling that imparts the charm—
We gain by what we give.
She never thought of ugliness
Unless with sin conjoined,—
How could dark Envy's shadow creep
On such a warm, pure mind?
Had ills for her in store?
With pure joy brimming o'er—
And Piety, like living plant,
Beside the waters rose,
With healing leaves to shelter her
From every storm that blows.
Her parents might be gone,
Yet still the loving Alice
Would never be alone.
Was not young Arthur even now
For ever by her side?
They were too young to marry yet,
But she would be his bride:
And all the gossips cried—
“A noble Bridegroom he will make!
And she a charming Bride!”
And vainly had you gone,
To find a youth like Arthur,
From Maine to Galveston.
And in the wrestler's ring;
Could shoot a squirrel in the eye,
Or woodcock on the wing;
He rode with grace and bearing high,
Like Cossack in command;
And his good steed would gently feed,
Like Arab's, from his hand;
And, when he called his dog or steed,
His tones were ever bland.
And all the neighbours said,—
“He'll make a Judge like Marshall,
With such a heart and head!”
Would find a friend in him,
For when she told a moving tale,
His eyes with tears were dim.
The good should be the gay,—
And Arthur was as bold of heart
As knight in tourney fray,—
His mind was always firm for truth
As rock 'mid ocean's spray;
And, though a restless daring will
At times he might display,
His wildest moods were calmed at once,
But mention Alice Ray.
And she—though when you talked of him,
She blushed and turned away—
Was still his partner in the dance
And in the dashing sleigh;
For flowers the first of May;
And duly to the Sabbath School
On every holy day
She went—they both were Teachers there,—
She went with Arthur Gray.
CANTO II.
THE TEMPTATION.
His last and sweetest sighs,
And Autumn's mist-like veil is drawn
Athwart the summer skies,
A veil as for a Bride's fair face,
Which loveliness conceals,
And wakens Fancy more than all
That Summer's pride reveals.
Has lost its lustrous green;
And on the meadow's sobered breast
A shade of brown is seen;—
We greet, with double blessings,
The bright-eyed gipsy flowers,
That, from departing Summer's hand,
Seem sown in rainbow showers.
That frolic o'er the hills,
And deeper sense of Beauty's power
The yearning spirit fills;—
If God through every change can keep
This earth so good and fair,
We raise our eyes towards heaven and say—
“What Beauty must be there!”
Was beautiful to see,
Beneath the old elm-tree;
A wild bird was above her head,
And by her side a flower,—
Oh how has nature o'er her heart
Thus lost its charm and power?
Where crowds of Fashion press,
And her dear, cherished home no more
Has light and pleasantness;
But deadlier still the poison
That such deep suffering stirs—
The power of Beauty she has seen,
And felt it was not hers!
—So exquisitely fair!—
Like alabaster flushed with life;
And then her glorious hair,
Like tendrils round a vine,—
And Alice sighed in bitterness—
“Oh, were such beauty mine!”
Her troubled bosom filled—
The fear she should not be beloved,
—'T was this her being chilled;
“Even Arthur Gray,” thus ran her thoughts,
“Some fairer girl may spy,—
Or leave me for Belinda;—
Oh, if I could but die!”
With its first crushing fear,
A Voice of stern command out-spoke,
Close to her startled ear,—
“Go, Maiden, to the Haunted Dell,
And in the ‘Bloody Spring,’
And the night-bat laves its wing,
And adder snakes are coiling,
Bathe thou thy face and hair—
Bathe thrice, not breathe a word or sound,
And then thou shalt be fair!”
Her heart grew stony cold;
She knew such gossip stories—
There was a legend old,
How a maid of peerless beauty
Was murdered in that Dell
By wily, ruthless savages,—
And how her fair face fell
In a lone Spring, thence “Bloody” called,—
And those who found her there,
And drew her gently forth, their hands
Had all waxed wondrous fair.
To try such awful spell,
'T was plain that naught but evil
Could live in that lone dell;
No human foot approached it—
'T was far, and wild the way;
How could she venture there alone,
This timid Alice Ray?
Oh, that she could be fair!
She looked towards the haunted dell,—
'T was not such distance there;
The sun was still above the hill,
And she, before 't was night,
Might go and come, and know her doom—
But then, would this be right?
That she had read or heard,
And of the “talking bird”—
Of “Undine” from her ocean home,
Wild Fancy's loveliest child,—
And then she thought of “water cures,”—
No dream could be more wild!
Would never bid her go;
It could not be an angel
Was keeping watch below,
And, pitying her hopeless grief,
Was counselling its cure—
Oh, no, 't was not an angel—
'T was some foul demon sure!
Had lured young girls away,
In guise of gallant Troubabour,
Or holy Friar grey,
Her precious soul to win;
And should she listen to his wiles,
And do this deadly sin?
To 'scape the dreadful snare,—
The words of that commanding Voice
Seemed sounding even there,—
“Go, maiden, to the ‘Bloody Spring,’
And bathe thy face and hair,
Bathe thrice, nor breathe a sound nor word,
—Thou shalt be wondrous fair.”
CANTO III.
THE HAUNTED DELL.
And calm is ocean's wave,
So small the danger seemeth
That every heart is brave;—
But let the tempest rise in wrath,
The ocean flout the sky,—
The firmest shriek, in agony,
“Lord, save us, or we die!”
Within a sheltered home,
We feel as sin and evil
Could never, never come;—
But let the strong temptation rise,
As whirlwinds sweep the sea—
We find no strength to 'scape the wreck,
Save, pitying God, in Thee.
And lost their souls for gold;
Pure women, for the pride of life,
Their priceless hearts have sold;
And for revenge, or power, or fame,
What deeds are done each day,—
And all by beings, guiltless once
As gentle Alice Ray!
The wish of this young girl
To have a face as fair as day,
And hair of graceful curl!
She fondly trusts by Beauty's power
Her Lover's heart to bind,—
For this, for this she trembling goes
The “Bloody Spring” to find.
And scaled the mountain steep,
Into a valley deep—
Above her crowd the fir trees,
Dark, motionless, and tall,
She hears no sound on that lone ground,
Save her own light foot-fall.
O'er deadly hemlock roots;
And thrice the poison ivy
Hath clasped her with its shoots;
And thrice a white owl hooted,
Close to her throbbing ear,
And seemed to ask her conscience,
What dost thou, Maiden, here?
And reached the “Bloody Spring,”
And here she nearly fainted—
She felt the night-bat's wing
And bathed her face and hair;
And all around was lone and still
As Death were watching there!
She bends as with a load—
Well may she start and shudder—
She grasped the slimy toad;
—But cast it from her, like a stone,
And bathed her face and hair;
And all around was dark and still
As Death were listening there.
She bendeth o'er the Spring,—
The bat is wheeling round and round,
She feels its clammy wing;—
The toad is creeping o'er her foot—
Yet mindful of the charm,
The snakes coil round her arm!
And prone she would have sunk,
But for a black-thorn's ragged branch—
Sole branch from rotting trunk;
She grasped it in her agony,
The foul snakes dropped away,—
And with her arms all bleeding,
Fled fainting Alice Ray.
But when the morning shone,
And she her faithful mirror sought—
How fair her face had grown!
The freckles all had vanished,
Her cheek was like the dawn,
The blush half struggling through the light,
Like rose-leaf under lawn.
And kept in curl so long;
How could she think the spell had been
So very, very wrong!
The treacherous heart will deem success
Has sanctified the deed;
The first step costs—but easy then
Sin's downward path will lead,—
This moral from her story learn,
—Of thy first step take heed.
Were working in her breast!
What dreams of ball-room conquests
Now broke her pillowed rest!
Her pony whinnied as she passed—
She never seemed to hear;
Her birds came round—she strewed no seeds,
And they withdrew in fear;
Her books had lost their charm and power,
Unopened near her toilet glass—
Wo! wo! for Alice Ray.
In proud and rich array;
And every day her charms increased,
Like some rare flower of May,
That opened later than the rest,
The sooner will decay;—
Still she was true to Arthur,
And might have been alway;
But from the city's courtly ranks
A lover rich and gay,
Smit with her face and flowing curls,
His homage came to pay.
And princely in his port was he,
And winning in his way,
And versed in love's seductive wiles,
He knew just what to say,—
How could she say him, “nay”!—
And she has left her dear, dear home,
Home of her infant play
And childhood's joy;—but there are ties
Which never can decay;
However dear new friends may be,
However far she stray,
She yet will see her Mother weep,
And hear her Father pray,—
Praying for her happiness,
Weeping in dismay,
That she, their dear and only child,
Must go so far away!—
She bade farewell to them, to all—
Farewell to Arthur Gray.
CANTO IV.
THE RETRIBUTION.
How fair the gardens grow,—
Yet burning Desolation
Is fierce and near below!—
While straying 'mid the vines and flowers.
We rarely pause to think,
How close this Beauty presses on
Destruction's awful brink!
Like flowers from hot-house brought,
We oft forget their blandest smile
Conceals some burning thought
Of pain, remorse or envy,
The surface hid beneath,—
Whose hearts are filled with death!
And outwardly serene,
We say “'t is good;”—but had we power
To lift the veil between,
And see how passion's lava
Is gathering in the breast,
While Justice, like a hidden stream
That cannot be suppressed,
Is wearing channels, day by day,
And coming nigh and nigher,—
How we should warn the world to flee
From sin's volcanic fire!
Her scales reach every heart;
The action and the motive,
She weigheth each apart;
Can 'scape her penalty;—
Oh! sore the Retribution,
Poor Alice, laid on thee.
A law that men endite;
But still, in her own mind she saw
The Law in purer light;
Had she not pined for Beauty,
With Envy's selfish eye,
And wed a man she did not love
For wealth, and station high?
Not with that pure, heart-love,
A true wife for her husband feels,
Kindled from heaven above:—
To wed a man one does not love,
What suffering to incur!
Her husband loved not her:—
To love with constancy;
When dazzled by her beauty,
And she a novelty,
He loved,—but soon the holy charm
Had lost its light and power,
And he would leave her lone and sad
For some new toy or flower.
Feels, with the deepest pain,
And often strove, by sweetest wiles,
To lure his heart again;—
She wore the colours he admired,
The jewels he had given,
And met him with a face of smiles
Even when her heart was riven.
How she her bird had freed,
And how it nestled in her neck—
He only cried—“Indeed!
Where is the paper? 'T is the day
To learn whose racer wins;—
And then, to-night, with that new star,
The Opera begins.”
Hers centred in a home
Where all was truth and tenderness,
And none but dear ones come;
His joy was found on Pleasure's tide,
With gay companions nigh,
And should they sink, it mattered not,
If he but held a buoy;—
The motto graven on his seal
Was, “I—and only I.”
The loving Alice pined;—
Had Heaven her lot appointed
She might have been resigned;
But 't was the bitter chalice
Which she herself had filled,—
It was the deadly Upas plant—
Her Envy had distilled.
Her Husband marked it not,—
Her flowing hair might sweetly curl,
—Its colour he forgot;
Her face was like Belinda's fair,
And yet he turned away
And gazed, and praised some painted thing
That flaunted in the play.
Was so unused to grief,
Some change would bring relief;
But days, weeks—months, are passing by,
And still her chains grow stronger;
She felt her sorrow was so great
She could not bear it longer.
Would with her dreamings come,
She strove to drive him from her mind—
But he was near her home,
And all she loved and sighed to see,—
As well forget her prayer
As him who often by her side
Had knelt that right to share.
And she to him was fair,
But now, with all her Beauty,
No one for her would care;
Even her bright hopes had fled,
She wished but for her mother
To hold her throbbing head.
Burst on the eastern sky,
The high roofs seemed like leaden weights
Upon her lifted eye,—
And when, as blesséd evening came,
She looked towards the west,
She felt as if the cold, hard walls
Were closing round her breast!
Of the last dying scene,—
Oh, what despairing thoughts arose,
With tears and prayers between!
The last pang came—she gave one shriek,
As though her heart-strings broke,—
The breathless girl—awoke!
Beneath that old elm tree,
With face of ashy pallor,
Beside her on his knee;—
“What ails thee, Alice, dearest?
Thy cry was strange and wild;”
She laid her head upon his breast,
And wept as weeps a child.
She told him all her woes,
From her Saratoga sorrows,
To that dark Vision's close:
She said—“My heart was wrong and weak,
How could I be so dull!
But now my dream has taught me this,
The loved are beautiful.
My foolishness and pride!”
—He whispered he forgave her all—
And something more beside;
I could not hear distinctly,
For song began to flow,
The joyous bird was over-head,
And lovers speak so low.
Put on his Winter grey—
While yet the melted rainbow,
'Mid forest shadow lay,
And trees were flushed with glory
More rich than flowers of May—
Though very late the season
For such a grand array,
It seemed as Earth kept on her robes
For Festival display—
But on the Friday after
Had you in Woodburn village
Enquired for Alice Ray—
They would have smiled and said—“She now
Is Mrs. Arthur Gray!”
“Thou shalt keep a fast unto me, in the end of the year, when thou hast gathered in thy labors out of the field,” was the command of God to his chosen people. The “Thanksgiving-Day,” established soon after the settlement of New England, by the Pilgrim Fathers, obeys this requisition of joyful gratitude, and seems the natural out-pouring of thankfulness for the abundance which in autumn is gathered into the overflowing garners of America. From New England the custom has been gradually extending itself, and last year the Thanksgiving-Day was kept in twenty-one, out of the twenty-nine States. In a few more years, we hope and trust the day will become a national Jubilee. Though the appointment must be always made by the State authorities, yet this might be done in concert, and a particular day—the last Thursday in November,—might be the day in every State and Territory. Then, though the members of the same family might be too far separated to meet around one festive board, they would have the gratification of knowing that all were enjoying the blessings of the day. From the St. Johns to the Rio Grande, from the Atlantic to the Pacific border, the telegraph of human happiness would move every heart to rejoice simultaneously, and render grateful thanks to God for the blessings showered on our beloved country.
Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | ||